So Over You Read online

  PRAISE FOR USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR KATE MEADER

  “When it comes to writing hot, sexy heroes and strong, independent women, no one does it better than Kate Meader.” —Harlequin Junkie

  THE CHICAGO REBELS SERIES

  IRRESISTIBLE YOU

  “[A] heart-stealing opener to the Chicago Rebels sports contemporary series. . . . Meader’s strength is creating characters who live, breathe, and jump off the page. . . . The mix of sexual tension and emotional decisions will lead Meader’s series launch to many a keeper shelf.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A charming hero who’s sexy as sin and a smart, fierce heroine who gives him a run for his money? Yes, please! I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”

  —Kimberly Kincaid, USA Today bestselling author

  “Meader’s signature firefighter heat transfers flawlessly to the world of high-stakes ice hockey in her hot-as-sin Chicago Rebels series.”

  —Gina Maxwell, New York Times bestselling author

  “Remy and Harper start the Chicago Rebels off with serious sizzle!”

  —Abby Green, USA Today bestselling author

  PRAISE FOR THE HOT IN CHICAGO SERIES

  SPARKING THE FIRE

  “The many instances of a family sticking together through it all are more than enough to tug on the heartstrings, but the steamy sex and sentimental pillow talk make this book a must-read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “WOW . . . Amazing, beautiful, and tissue-worthy. That is what this book is.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “A sparkling, sexy second-chance romance . . . a story of fighting for both yourself and your family.”

  —All About Romance (Desert Isle Keeper)

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Winner of the RT Book Reviewers’ 2015 Award for Best Contemporary Love & Laughter

  A Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2015

  A Washington Post Best Romance of 2015

  “Meader packs the flawless second Hot in Chicago romance with superb relationship development and profane but note-perfect dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Steamy sex scenes, colorful characters, and riveting dialogue . . . a real page-turner.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick Gold)

  “A smart, sexy book.”

  —Sarah MacLean, The Washington Post

  “Hot, sexy, wonderful.”

  —Beverly Jenkins, The Huffington Post

  FLIRTING WITH FIRE

  “Sexy and sassy . . . I love this book!”

  —Jude Deveraux, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Sexy, witty, and hot, hot, hot. Kate Meader will make you fall in love with the hunky firefighters at Engine Co. 6.”

  —Sarah Castille, New York Times bestselling author

  “Get your fire extinguisher ready—Flirting with Fire is HOT and satisfying!”

  —Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author

  “This book is everything you want in a romance: excellent writing, strong characters, and a sizzling plot that keeps the pace up throughout the story.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  For every woman who’s been left frustratingly scoreless, may you get all the orgasms you deserve!

  PROLOGUE

  Hockey is not for pussies. Technically, it’s defined as a sport. Words like play and game get thrown around liberally to shield its true nature: hockey is warfare with water breaks. In the rink, you have over two thousand pounds of brute force clashing with whittled clubs, a rubber disc that could crush a larynx, and knives attached to feet. Let’s not pretend there’s anything civilized going on here.

  —Clifford Chase, three-time Stanley Cup winner, NHL Hall of Famer, and all-around asshole

  Sold out. The arena was freakin’ sold out.

  On jellied legs, Isobel Chase skated to the face-off circle at the center of the rink in the Bayside Arena, home of the Buffalo Betties. The puck hadn’t even dropped yet, but the raucous crowd of twenty thousand was already on its feet in anticipation of history about to be made.

  The inaugural game of the National Women’s Hockey League, playing to a sold-out stadium, and she was here! On this night of firsts, Isobel would continue her storied career. Winner of the Patty Kazmaier Award for best NCAA player, last captain standing after the Frozen Four, silver medalist for Team USA . . . She could go on, but she had a professional fucking hockey game to win.

  Melissande Cordet, the famed Canadian power forward and the only woman to get called up for a game in the NHL, hovered, ready to do the ceremonial drop. They’d chitchatted before the game and posed for photos while Cordet told Isobel how far women’s hockey had come. How Isobel and her fellow athletes were blazing a trail.

  Come back to me with that BS, Mel, when there isn’t a salary cap of $270K on each team in the women’s league.

  Yeah, yeah, Isobel got it. Baby steps. Until they could prove their worth with decent attendance figures, TV broadcast deals, and feminine hygiene product sponsorships, the Great Experiment would continue.

  “Ready to make history?” Cordet asked in a voice liltingly inflected with her French Canadian accent.

  Isobel remained still, her left hand choking her stick, her body bowed and tipped toward her opposite, Jen Grady, the captain of the Montreal Mavens. They’d roomed at Harvard together, skated to glory at the Games together, but that meant jack shit now. Tonight Isobel would be the first to touch the puck.

  Drop, sweep, flick, chop—all viable strategies to win a face-off. Every day since he’d plopped her on the ice at the age of three, her father, Clifford Chase, had drilled into her the same advice. Know your enemy. Know what they’re going to do before they’ve even thought it. Grady liked to go for the crisp slice, so chopping her stick would be Isobel’s best move.

  The old man was on his feet somewhere in the stands, though with his wealth and renown, he could have easily landed an entire box to himself. Wanting to feel the crowd, that pulsing, living thing as it rose and fell with the team’s fortunes, he’d bought a Buffalo Betties cap and planted himself in the thick of it.

  When women go pro, you’ll be first on the line, Izzy. It’s why I’m harder on you than I am on the boys. It’s for your own good.

  The boys, meaning the pro players on the Chicago Rebels, the NHL team her father owned and ruled with an iron fist. Substitute sons, they were sporadically successful, which only served to place more pressure on Isobel’s shoulders. She inched those shoulders forward.

  The puck dropped.

  Grady touched it first.

  The night went downhill from there.

  ONE

  Two years later . . .

  “So this is just a flying visit, right? A couple of dances and we’re out?”

  Isobel’s younger sister, Violet, flicked a look of disgust over her shoulder. Granted, Isobel had vowed to make more effort in the Grand Plan: get herself a real, live boyfriend versus the battery-operated one she defaulted to in times of need. But six weeks into the year and she’d gotten no further than a few awkward online chats.

  What are you wearing?

  A sports bra and— Hello, hello, are you still there? Oh, fuck off, dickbiscui
t.

  “You’re never going to get laid with that attitude,” Violet said as they hacked through teeming masses of nubile, tanned, scantily clad bodies that packed the floor of Ignite, Chicago’s newest, hottest whatever. Most of these people looked like they’d been shipped in from a Pitbull music video.

  When Isobel didn’t respond, Violet stopped and pivoted. “What did I tell you about showing a little skin?”

  Isobel looked down at her nightclub ensemble: black leggings and Joan of Arctic fur-lined boots paired with an Eddie Bauer parka over a black turtleneck. She called it her “French cat burglar” look. Not only did it throw off a sixties beatnik poet vibe and hug all the right places on her six-foot-tall frame, but it had the added benefit of protecting against a Chicago winter. She was nothing if not practical.

  “This isn’t really a good night to be looking for a man,” she muttered mutinously.

  “It’s Valentine’s Day. This place is filled with losers who couldn’t get a date and now they’re on the prowl for the leftovers.”

  “Like me?” Because she certainly didn’t include Violet in the desperate-dateless-leftovers category. Her sister currently might be without an official boyfriend, but she was keeping a few members of the Rebels hockey team—the team they jointly owned and ran with their elder sister, Harper—on the hook. Not exactly principled, but Violet wasn’t known for her scrupulous attention to the rules.

  Vi grinned big. “Exactly like you!”

  Who was Isobel kidding? Satan would be ice-skating to work before she got lucky, which suited her tonight because she really should be at home, replaying game videos in preparation for tomorrow: Her first coaching gig with the Rebels. So, all right, she was only a consultant, but it would lead to more. She knew it.

  “It’s a good thing we’re on the list,” Violet shouted over her shoulder as she elbowed her way through the frenzy with sharp jabs, “because there’s no way we would have gotten in with you looking like South Pole explorer meets South Side gangbanger.”

  The list? Now that Isobel thought about it, they had skipped a considerable line along with the serious scrutiny of the club’s security. Violet looked like she belonged here with her fabulous gold bustier, a black band masquerading as a skirt, and lashings of colorful ink adorning her gleaming olive skin. Really, she fit in anywhere that was cool and dangerous.

  The two had only recently started hanging out when the requirements of their father’s will threw the formerly estranged half sisters together to manage the team. Two years ago, Isobel hadn’t even known of Violet Vasquez’s existence, as dear old Dad had shoved the result of his one-night stand into the Chase family armoire. On Clifford’s death five months ago, Violet had moved from Reno to Chicago, and she was largely responsible for relieving the tension that thickened the air whenever Isobel was in the same room as big sis Harper. Isobel theorized that since she grew up out of Cliff’s shadow, Violet wasn’t burdened by the Chase legacy. She had a way about her, a go-for-broke attitude, that Isobel envied.

  “What list?” Isobel asked just as they reached a short stairway leading to a VIP area. “What’s going on, Vi?”

  “We’re hanging with Cade and the guys.”

  Awesome! A night skirting ethical boundaries with pro hockey players who worked for her.

  Violet was already skipping up the stairway littered with bored supermodels, several of them wearing skimpy cropped tops that barely covered their tits. The poor women were either freezing to death or highly aroused, because their nipples popped like pucks against the thin fabric. The letters VESNA blazed from several surgically enhanced chests. Why did that word sound familiar?

  A few more steps and it became clear that the line of women clinging like sex-starved limpets to the stair rail was an actual queue with a goal in mind. A mall line for Santa, perhaps, where a deviant Mr. Claus was about to have the time of his freakin’ life. And here was Isobel blindly following Violet, who now waved at someone behind the velvet rope at the top of the steps.

  Shit.

  Isobel’s heart sank to her not-gettin’-laid-tonight boots. She recognized the head elf pulling back the rope, though Alexei Medvedev was more crusty goblin than Christmas imp.

  Vadim Petrov’s right-hand man hadn’t changed much in the eight years since she’d last seen him, his age still anywhere between forty and sixty. Following some ridiculous feudal custom, the man supposedly owed service in perpetuity to Vadim’s bloodline. He served as cook, porter, alarm clock, and bodyguard, to name just a few of his jobs. No doubt he picked up his charge’s dry cleaning, ushered women out of Vadim’s bed in the early hours, and waxed his boy’s scrotum for that silky, manscaped feel.

  If Isobel had thought Alexei might have forgotten her, she was quickly disabused of this notion when he let Violet through but placed his Russian solidity in Isobel’s path. Seemed she was persona non grata again. They sized each other up, and Isobel was happy to say that she was still taller than him, her six feet besting Alexei by a good four inches. But he made up for it in squat, torpedo-shaped bulk. Plus, she was at a clear positioning disadvantage—he could easily push her down the stairs.

  And he looked like nothing would please him more.

  “What’s up, Igor?” He’d loved it when she called him that in olden times.

  Wondering why the holdup, Violet turned and grabbed her arm. “Hey, she’s with me, tipo.”

  After a few seconds, Alexei stood back, his soulless, shark’s eyes boring into Isobel. All he was missing was the two-fingered prong gesture I’m watching you. Fine, they understood each other.

  Moving forward into the crowded room—huh, not so exclusive after all—Isobel felt her skin prickle with foreboding. As if it knew something she didn’t.

  She turned, and whoosh! Sure, she didn’t need all that breath in her lungs anyway. Vadim Petrov sat on a chocolate velvet couch wearing a sharp suit, an icy stare, and a half-naked blonde.

  The man had made a bargain with the devil, and the devil had yet to call in his marker. Undeniably beautiful, he sported mountain-high cheekbones that pronounced his descent from an aristocratic lineage, eyes as blue as Lake Michigan in spring, and full lips that miraculously softened the sharp angles of his face. Coal-black hair fell over his brow, its silkiness appearing as untouchably otherworld as its owner. And don’t even get her started on his sculpted, tatted body—currently covered up, thank Gretzky—which he proudly flaunted on billboards as often as his numerous sponsorship deals demanded.

  A few days ago, the Rebels had traded him in from Quebec. The plan was to use him on the left wing, but he wasn’t quite game fit, owing to a recurring knee injury. This gave him plenty of time to indulge his other interests: clubbing and manwhoring.

  For the briefest moment she wished she didn’t look like a lank-haired, parka-sporting, clodhopper-wearing schlub the first time in years she’d been less than ten feet away from him. But then she shot titanium into her spine, cocked her hip à la fuck it, and sidled up to Violet.

  Cade “Alamo” Burnett, one of the Rebels’ defensemen, had just kissed Violet on the cheek and looked like he wanted to lean into Isobel, but seemed to change his mind at the last moment. No problemo. Isobel was all about boundaries.

  “Hey, take off your coat, Iz,” Vi said.

  Isobel felt too warm, too cold, and mighty uncomfortable. “Not staying long.”

  “Izzz . . .”

  “Oh, okay. Keep your bustier on.” As she unzipped her parka, she was surprised to feel a tug. “Uh, that’s mine.”

  “I know, I’m trying to—”

  “Back off, lady.”

  After a few seconds struggling, she discovered that the woman behind her was actually a coat check person and not a parka thief.

  Isobel really should not be allowed out in public.

  She hoped Vadim wasn’t watching— Oh, who cares what he thinks?

  Apparently her eighteen-year-old self did, because that’s what she’d reverted to. That loser’s t
raitorous gaze couldn’t help itself, and when it landed on the Russian again, Isobel was surprised to find him watching her with mild amusement. This was different. When he was nineteen, humor had been about as foreign to him as a PB&J sandwich.

  Some guy who had “PR clown” written all over him was taking a photo of the blonde as she inched her hand inside Vadim’s lapel, apparently needing the warmth only those muscles could provide. Two seconds later, the blonde was subbed out for a redhead, who appeared to have similar body heat problems. Santa, aka Vadim, whispered in her ear, probably inquiring if she’d been naughty or, you know, extra naughty.

  The tabloids called him the Czar of Pleasure, a man as well known for his exploits in the bedroom as for those on the ice. Oh, Isobel’s tell-all about Vadim’s erotic talents would make for some really surprising reading.

  Eyes bright with admiration, Cade looked around the VIP room plastered with signs for Vesna, which Isobel now recalled was a high-end Russian vodka. “Man, I want a vodka deal.”

  “You’d be lucky if you got a deal fronting Budweiser Clydesdale piss, Alamo,” came a slow drawl behind them.

  Remy DuPre, the Rebels’ center straight from the heart of the bayou, appeared bearing the most froufrou drink Isobel had ever seen. Blue with a big chunk of pineapple in the center.

  “Is that for Harper?” Isobel asked, knowing it wasn’t, because her sister wouldn’t be caught dead in a club with the players even if her boyfriend’s presence gave her a good excuse. Banging one of them is bad enough, Harper was fond of saying. I need to at least give the illusion of labor-management boundaries.

  Remy’s blue eyes crinkled. “I’m just here to make sure these boys get home by curfew.”

  Isobel hid her smile. She liked how Remy had stepped up to the position of elder statesman since his arrival four months ago. She also liked how Remy was a calming influence on her older sister. He could have bailed on the Rebels when he had a shot at trading out, but didn’t because he loved Harper.